


Three Score and Ten

by guineaDogs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Keith, Characters in their 30s, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Museum Director Shiro, Museums, Sheithmark 2021, Small Towns, extremely brief background lotura, high school sweethearts, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Shiro is a museum director in a small mountain town tasked with operating a creative-in-residence program. When his high school sweetheart becomes the next artist the museum is hosting, Shiro has to confront the feelings he's carried for Keith for the past 20 years.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 96
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I'd like to thank Murph for being an amazing beta, and to the mods for organizing this whole event. I'm very excited to share this story with you all; it's been my baby for the past few months.
> 
> I played blackout with my Sheithmark bingo card for this fic! Here's the tropes: unexpected weather event, incredibly niche occupation, winery, walk in the woods, handwritten note or letter, nosy best friend, fake identity, grand gesture, bed and breakfast, dog, mistaken identity, a bet, car trouble/fateful fender bender, rivals, deadlines, slow dancing, bookstore, arts and crafts as part of the plot, teaching another a new skill, adorable child, boats, high school sweetheart, antiques store, family business.
> 
> I have more notes at the end. Enjoy!

_ “Do we have everyone?” _

Shiro glances at the list of attendees on the right hand panel of the Google Meets tab and compares it to those handful of people who were invited, and marked that they intended to attend the virtual meeting. “Looks that way.”

It’s only a few other people, most of whom he’s met in person, but others he’s only met virtually. It’s just how it goes when your organization’s sites and offices are spread about an entire state rather than being centralized in a singular building or city block. The distance presents an interesting challenge, but Shiro enjoys challenges. He also enjoys not having to share office space with half of the people he regularly works with.

_ “Excellent, _ ” Sanda says. “I hope the new year is treating everyone well.” It’s a formal comment, not an invitation to discuss the recent holiday, snowfall or the impact it’s having on visitation, or really  _ anything at all _ . More familiar conversations happen within the Director meetings, among the other museum directors part of the state organization, but never with Ellen Sanda, Executive Director. She’s responsible for twelve state-operated sites across the state, in addition to the state preservation fund. She manages hundreds of employees, including museum directors, curators, educators, docents, oral and public historians, NAGPRA specialists, archeologists, and everything in between. Her brand of leadership was a stiff sort of  _ old guard _ , with pleasantries reserved for those in the Governor’s Office, philanthropists, and the Board. Shiro has her retirement marked on his mental calendar, but until then he can play the game. 

“Of course, as you all know this meeting is concerning the Creative in Residence program at Mears History Museum. I must say, Mr. Shirogane, the Governor is very pleased to see this program’s continued success as part of his arts initiative.” 

The program had been nothing but a festering pain in Shiro’s ass over the year since its launch, but he knows a compliment when he sees one, and he can and will accept the praise. “The Mears community, and others in San Miguel County, are enjoying the program; we have a solid group who attend the related events.” 

Sanda nods curtly. “We have selected a new artist from the existing pool of applicants.” She pauses, and it must be Iverson’s cue to talk, because Shiro can see his lips moving. “You’re still muted.” 

Iverson unmutes himself and clears his throat. “As I was saying, the artist in question is called…’Yorak,’ and should be arriving by the fifth.” 

If Shiro has learned one thing over the years, it’s knowing what things to fight, and what to accept. If he wants to be able to have any progress with the projects he prioritizes more—preservation, groundskeeping, exhibits, for example—it won't do him any good to gripe about this. It's not like he didn't expect a new artist to arrive this month, after all. He just assumed that he'd be informed prior to  _ January third. _

Which is another grievance entirely. Bolstering the creative districts throughout the state is one of the Governor's pet projects, so as inconvenient and frustrating as the program is for  _ Shiro _ , there's absolutely no way anyone will budge on this. After all, at the end of the day, the Governor is the one who has discretion over the state budget...which directly impacts his own operating budget. And salary. 

So he'll play ball. He won't complain about not having a voice in the selection process. His previous concerns about the application process being classist and exclusionary were ignored; he knows he's not going to have any luck in getting anyone to budge elsewhere.

Instead, he can merely be petty. "The  _ fifth? _ How time flies. I was unaware it would be so soon."

Iverson clears his throat. "The committee contacted Mr. Yorak yesterday, and he seemed eager to make his way there as soon as possible. I will be forwarding his application and contact information shortly."

"Alright, thank you," Shiro responds. As the conversation continues, Shiro lets his gaze drift from the computer monitor to the single window in his office, just beyond where he has his desk placed. With a space heater plugged in beside him, he's quite comfortable. But outside, it's somewhere in the mid-20s, and the only reason the snow from the recent storm is clearing up is merely because the sun is out and sublimation is in full-force.

Theoretically, the roads up here should be fine by the time Yorak arrives, but a lot can change in two days.

At some point, an hour passes, and in the spirit of respecting one another's time, the meeting draws to a close. Shiro releases an exhale and slumps into the back of his office chair. That concludes his last meeting for the day, and he can already feel the toll it's taken.

Mondays tend to be meeting-heavy; for most locations, including his, the museums aren't open to the public that day, so it serves as a useful administrative day. It's when his various committees and boards meet, but at some point, his organization got even more meeting-happy, and now there's a considerable overflow on Tuesdays,, too.

As if he doesn't have enough on his plate. And as much as he'd like to pretend this was the last obligation he had to attend to for the day, he's not even close. For now, the email is forgotten in favor of stretching his legs.

* * *

There are particular challenges that come with managing a site like this one. It would be easier if it was all a new construction, with everything part of the museum within the sturdy walls of a single building. Instead, the Mears History Museum is the size of a small city block, comprising several buildings, three of which are on the National Register of Historic Places and are artifacts as much as the items displayed in the exhibits.

It makes it special and unique, and since it's situated in the middle of a mountain town that's a popular destination year round, they're able to draw in tourists who are interested in exploring historic houses and buildings and learning about local history. That part is all well and good; Shiro takes a lot of pride in what he's been able to do in the few years he's been here as director, operating on a limited budget and heavily assisted by the meager grants he's been able to get.

The aforementioned  _ particular challenges _ do, in fact, center around the fact that the buildings he manages were constructed in the early 1880s. Buildings from that long ago require a lot of upkeep, and despite the State's demands on running certain types of programs, they offer little in the way of preservation funds. What he does have access to is tied up in the bureaucratic nightmare of his organization's facilities department, located in the capital,  _ on the other side of the state. _

There's hundreds of miles and several mountain ranges between them, which means their site visits are few and far between. It makes finding qualified contractors to do work on the buildings difficult; Shiro is responsible for coordinating with contractors that facilities hire, just like he's responsible for finding contractors for smaller projects and emergencies. But finding people who specialize in things like... repairing roofs of historic buildings, in a manner that is in compliance with their requirements, is difficult, to say the lease.

Combine that with the annual snowfall being something around fifteen feet on average, with snow possible for nine months of the year, and you have leaking roofs. It's the bane of Shiro's existence, and one of his biggest grievances.

It's fundamentally wrong, in his opinion, that he should just anticipate that if the snow melts a certain way, the melt will find its way into the upper floors of the buildings. That he should just strategically place buckets and tarps throughout his site in an effort to mitigate damage as much as possible because it's been years and facilities still can't give him a straight answer as to when roof repair will be an option.

The frustration he feels after checking in on building after building now that it's midafternoon and is as warm as it's going to be today must be written on his face, because when he enters the gift shop, Hunk offers him a sympathetic look. “Rough meeting?”

“The usual,” Shiro says, keeping his current frustrations to himself. He believes in transparent leadership, but he also finds it unproductive to air those things with his staff, particularly his hourly staff who aren’t paid to be concerned about interoffice politics. “How’s it been in here?”

Hunk’s expression is immediately sheepish, and he gestures about the gift shop. It’s not a particularly large space, so every nook and cranny is utilized as efficiently as possible to display books, pottery, and other items they sell. “You’re the first person I’ve seen today.”

So: not good. The silver-lining that Shiro desperately holds onto is the knowledge that as a 501(c)(3), he’s not managing a for-profit business. It just sucks to have such incredibly slow days. “It’s only Tuesday. I’m sure it’ll pick up when we get closer to the weekend.” There’s probably an argument to be made for changing winter hours. 

Under previous leadership, the museum  _ was _ closed over the entirety of winter. It made sense at the time: the director and a considerable number of staff didn’t live in Mears, but rather one of the towns further down the highway. Combining how early the sun sets, the distance, and the road conditions, Shiro understands the call. 

He can see the benefit in only being only open on weekends, too. It could save money, particularly wages, to only be open two or three days out of the winter. But winter is long, and there’s benefits to being consistent; they can be trusted to be there, and to be accessible and open to the public for six hours a day, five days a week. They’re in walking distance from one of the public ski lifts, which makes the site awfully convenient for visiting winter tourists who may want to warm up for a bit before hitting the slopes. He’ll take that over being closed for half or all of the week, even if it means slow days like this one. 

* * *

Shiro was right in his assumption that the following day would be better. Unlike the day before, the museum brims with activity from the moment Hunk lets himself into the gift store at ten in the morning, and when four o’clock rolls around Shiro has to step in to get the stragglers to leave so they can close on time. 

All in all, it’s a good day, and between admission, upcharges for guided tours,  _ and _ a particularly successful day with regard to gift shop sales, they’ve more or less broken even after the previous day being so dead. Of course, it’s only by the metric of ‘small not for profit,’ because it’s rare that they ever earn enough in a day to cover wages, utilities, and maintenance. 

When it’s finally time for him to go—a good hour and a half after everyone else, simply because there’s a never ending list of things for him to accomplish in a day—it’s well past twilight. The sky is dark, save for the twinkling stars overhead, and the street lamps illuminate the area around them.

It’s not the best lighting, especially at this time of night, but it’s enough to effectively avoid the visible patches of ice as he makes his way to his car. It’s cold outside, but even colder in his car, and it’s just unfortunate that usually he’ll be halfway home before the heater is even remotely effective. 

Today’s a longer commute, and the sudden realization that he needs a grocery store run now or he’ll regret it later is something he feels keenly in his bones. The problem isn’t that Mears doesn’t have a grocery store; they do, in fact. It’s just caught up in a union-versus-corporate chokehold. The story he’s been able to suss out is that until the store—one of the few left in this particular chain—deunionizes, the corporate entity that bought the chain out some years back will not provide the necessary funding for store improvements.

Combined with the sort of chaotic management that you only find in extremely small communities where the spirit of the wild west is still going strong, you get a store that just isn’t worth shopping at if it can be helped. Shiro can’t count on both of his hands just how many times he’s seen rotting produce sitting out in the open. Or the number of times he’s accidentally bought spoiled dairy products because the coolers broke  _ again _ and rather than tossing the affected items, they try selling them long after they’ve been compromised. All of this, of course, is without even mentioning the horrors he’s  _ smelled _ emanating from the meat section.

It’s unfortunate, because as much as he’d like to support the good fight, groceries are expensive and he’s not keen on risking food poisoning. 

It means instead of driving the fifteen minutes home that he normally would, it’s forty-five minutes down the mountain to shop at a  _ WalMart. _ Which sucks in several regards, but at least the products won’t be spoiled. 

The drive down is uneventful. Given the absolute reliance on winter tourism, the roads are without too many issues. It’s just him, a dark and winding mountain road, and an album about the transcendence of youth playing quietly in the background. He keeps his eyes peeled for deer, elk, or even the wayward moose; the last thing he wants is an unexpected encounter with anything that large, particularly with his vehicle. 

WalMart, unfortunately, is packed. He’s not the only one who travels down to shop there; this particular location services essentially anyone in the tri county area willing to make the commute. But he gets what he needs, and is lucky enough not to run into anyone who recognizes him. For a grocery shopping experience, it’s as painless as possible. 

The incident occurs when he’s halfway back to Mears. In the distance, he can see the flashing emergency lights of a car parked on the side of the road—to an extent, anyway. The sharp shoulder only allows for so much wiggle room. Shiro slows down, parking his car behind it. On nights like these, when it’s bitterly cold, one of the worst things that can happen is ending up stranded. 

It’s a well-travelled highway, but the later it gets in the night, the more infrequent passersby become. Shiro can’t abide the thought of ignoring this person on the off-chance that something disastrous happens. After turning on the emergency lights for his own vehicle, he unbuckles his seatbelt, pocketing his keys as he approaches the other vehicle. 

He can’t see the driver, but he can hear the whirring of the window being rolled down, so he opts to speak right then as he continues his approach: “Car trouble?” 

“Yeah. Just waiting on a tow truck.” A man’s voice. Okay. Cool. At least Shiro doesn’t have to worry about seeming creepy in his effort to be helpful. 

It’s at that point where he’s closer to the side of the window. There’s not a lot of light, but between the flashing lights from both vehicles, the moonlight, and most importantly the light from the guy’s phone, he can make out his face decently enough. Nothing too identifying, but Shiro can tell he’s alone, and there’s a bunch of stuff piled in the back. “Oh, good. I’m glad you were able to get in touch with someone. There’s only one or two 24-hour towers in the county. Is there anything you need help with in the meantime?” 

The response isn’t immediate; it’s long enough that Shiro worries he  _ is _ , in fact, scaring this guy. Who expects 6’4” tall man to approach you in the middle of the night on a deserted highway, fuck—

“Shiro?”

His racing thoughts come to a screeching halt. It didn’t occur to him that he was possibly more visible. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” The woes of being a community leader, more people know him than he ever realizes...

The answer comes in the form of the man turning on the overhead light. He’s different than Shiro remembers. Less baby-faced, sharper features—but it’s him. His heart stutters. “Keith?” It’s dizzying to see him here, now, and so unexpectedly. He can’t make sense of it. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you. I never thought–” Keith cuts himself off, shaking his head. He turns the light off again, this time stepping out of the vehicle. Shiro takes a step back to accommodate him, and in that moment he wishes it was summer. The sun would still be out enough that he’d be able to get a good look at the man who’s had his heart for most of his life. 

Keith’s shoulders are hunched as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. “I was selected for an artist residency. Wouldn’t you know my car decides to crap out on me on the very last leg of the trip.” 

Gobsmacked. Shiro feels absolutely gobsmacked. 

“What about you?” Keith hedges. “I can’t exactly say I expected to see you here, of all places.” Which is fair to say. Last time they’d seen each other had been in southern Arizona, right before Shiro and his family moved to Seattle nearly twenty years ago. 

Eventually, Shiro’s mouth catches up with his brain enough to actually  _ speak. _ “I’m, uh. Wait. Are you Yorak?” After Keith makes a surprised sound of affirmation, Shiro finds himself stumbling over his words even more. “ _ What. _ ” He’d never opened that email, which would’ve definitely had this information in it. “I’m. Um. The director… of the museum you’re staying at?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” Silence fills the space between them, and it’s something creeping beneath his skin. Part jitters, part feeling like he’s going to absolutely  _ burst _ from the sheer shock of exceptionally strange and surprising events, he feels a rush of relief when the tow truck arrives. It offers an alternative to just standing there awkwardly. “Are you, uh, going to want to get into the museum tonight because–”

Keith shakes his head. “I booked a hotel room. Honestly after all this–” He gestures toward his car. “I’m exhausted. If you have time tomorrow, we can grab coffee and you can show me around?” 

Shiro all too readily agrees.

* * *

“So let me get this straight. The ‘one that got away’ I’ve had to hear you whine and obsess over for  _ I don’t know how many years now _ is about to begin a three month residency at the museum, and this is an issue why?”

“Because!” Shiro paces his kitchen, waiting for a pot of water to boil as he cradles his phone against his ear and shoulder. Matt can’t see him throwing his hands about dramatically, but he’s certain it can be heard in his tone.

“Because you’ve decided it would be some big bad ethical issue even though this is an ‘independent contractor’ and ‘person who is responsible for the building said contractor is living in’ situation. You’re coming up with reasons to not get dicked.”

Shiro  _ squawks _ at the accusation. “My concerns are completely reasonable. We’re talking about my professional integrity, and you’re getting  _ way _ too ahead of things. That’s not even on the–”

“–what, did he get ugly?” 

“What.” Shiro freezes. “Keith could  _ never _ and that has nothing to do with anything.”

“You said it was dark. How well could you actually see him?” 

“Fucking hell, Matt. That literally doesn’t matter. Keith is Keith. And more importantly, I haven’t seen him in since we were fifteen. We were  _ kids _ . There’s no reason to even assume that he’d be even remotely interested in me.” It’s a sobering, but realistic thought. 

That's when his gaze catches the gleam of silver and finds himself staring at his arm. He likes to think that he's very emotionally detached from his  _ accident _ , but he's self aware enough to know being able to wear a coat and gloves for much of the year is a huge reason why he loves living at such a high elevation.

“Shiro.”

“Matt.”

“I have a question, and I want you to think really hard about it.” He pauses for emphasis. “What would Brian Boitano do, if he were here right now?”

Shiro groans. “I hate you, you know that?”

“Answer the question.” 

“He’d make a plan and he’d follow through.”

“And that’s what you’re going to do,” Matt declares. “You’ve been hung up on this guy for an obscenely long time, never even bothered looking him up—because why? All the information in the world is at your fingertips. But that doesn’t matter. He’s here now, and you’re going to do something about it.”

Shiro can read between the lines, and dread washes over him. “And what will  _ you _ be doing?”

“Nothing that you need to worry your pretty little mind about.”

* * *

But that’s categorically not true. When it comes to the antics of Matthew Holt, Shiro has every reason to worry. It’s perhaps not as pressing as his worries about meeting up with Keith. He needs to approach this as Takashi Shirogane, Director of the Mears History Museum. A man who is an expert in his field, who has years of experience working with interdisciplinary teams and community building. It’s not in his nature to feel nervous and jittery over meeting with an artist participating in a program he’s been managing for several rounds now. 

But that’s the thing. Perhaps he’ll handle all of it better in the moment; that’s how a lot of things are for him. There might be anticipatory anxiety, but it quickly ebbs away when he’s doing whatever he’s doing and doesn’t have time to over-analyze. 

Right now, he feels like an awkward teenager, all jittery and sweaty palms as he sits alone at a table in Mears’s premier coffee house, the Higher Ground. They’d agreed to meet at eight, get coffee, and they’d then walk the couple blocks from here to the museum. It wasn’t even that different from the way he treated previous artists, except typically they’d meet at the museum first, get a tour around the site, and then Shiro would give them a brief walking tour downtown to show them points of interest and introduce them to local artists and community members they needed to know. 

The only difference was that once upon a time, twenty years ago, he’d known Keith. Intimately. Shiro couldn’t claim to know Keith now, but he’d like to.

Even so. He’s sitting here by the storefront window waiting for Keith to arrive, and with each passing minute, there’s part of him that worries that Keith won’t make it for one reason or another, even though  _ he _ is the one whose anxiousness about something as simple as a coffee resulted in arriving too early.

Eventually, just a few minutes after their agreed-upon meeting time, the wind catches the front door as it opens, and Keith enters the cafe. He’s bundled up in a parka, his long hair windblown, and his cheeks and nose slightly pink from the drastic temperature change from outside and in. His eyes are brilliant and vibrant, and when they meet Shiro’s, they light up in recognition.

For a moment, Shiro forgets how to breathe. Keith is  _ beautiful. _ He’s always been beautiful; Shiro remembers how cute he was when they were both gangly awkward teenagers, and over the years his imagination has been kind enough to grant him images of what he may have grown up to look like.

But none of them compare to the man standing before him now. Shiro knows, in that moment, he is completely  _ fucked. _

Keith tucks a strand of hair behind his ear as he approaches Shiro’s table. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I misjudged how long it’d take to walk here from the motel.” 

“No worries, I just got here.” Keith doesn’t need to know otherwise, and Shiro has no intention of letting him know how obscenely early he’d arrived or why. “Do you want a minute to decide on your drink? It’s on me.”

“Oh.” Keith’s eyes widen. “Um.” His gaze shoots to the chalkboard hanging behind the barista counter. “I don’t know, you’re the local. What do you recommend? I want something hot and caffeinated.” 

Shiro tucks his palm under his chin thoughtfully, gesturing for Keith to sit, which he does. “My favorite is the PMM–Purple Macchiato Majesty. If you like lavender, it’s the best thing on the menu.” 

Keith shakes his head with a small smile, like he’s suddenly remembering something from long ago. “Of course you’d like a drink with a name like that. I’ll try it, but I have to say it’s an interesting choice in name. I’ve yet to see any purple mountains.” 

“That’s because you’re not on the Front Range, you’re on the Western Slope.” Shiro gets up to place their order, shooting a grin over his shoulder in response to Keith’s scoffed ‘ _ what does that even mean.’ _ Once the order is placed, he returns to his seat. “It was more of a joke than anything.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Keith responds, but it’s clear he’s not shutting him down. Rather, he waits expectantly. 

“Any mountain can look purple at a distance, but  _ that _ specific purple mountain, above fruited plain, refers to Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs—of course, it had other names. The longest we know of being Tava, from the Ute–” Shiro pauses, noticing the way Keith is watching him.

“Nothing. You just have a certain...tone you use when you’re explaining things. You’re not too loud, but you  _ project. _ ” 

“Oh.” Shiro’s cheeks flush. “That’s my docent voice.” He says it like it's the simplest thing, and to him it is. It's just something that comes with the territory.

“A docent voice,” Keith repeats, shaking his head, just enough that his hair moves along with him. It’s such a small thing, but all Shiro can see is the beauty in it. Which is bad.  _ Terribly bad, unprofessional, he doesn’t even know if Keith is single–  _ “You know, I never would’ve known what to expect after all this time, but even if I did, I never would have pegged you for a museum person.”

Shiro leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. In that simple gesture, though, he realizes he’s using his right hand. An abrupt wave of self-consciousness washes over him, and he tries to be as subtle as possible when he sets that hand in his lap. It shouldn’t matter—he’s wearing gloves and a winter coat—but it  _ does. _ “It has been a long time,” he says, diplomatically. “And that’s a long story. But I’m happy where I am now.”

“That’s good,” Keith says, earnest and determined. “You deserve happiness. You always have.”

“Keith…” Shiro can feel his cheeks burning. How long have they been around each other as adults? Surely no more than an hour, and yet he feels himself quickly spiralling into what can only be described as  _ disaster gay. _ Fortunately, his saving grace comes in the form of one of the baristas setting down the two hot mugs of lavender macchiato. 

The warm ceramic that he quickly wraps his hands around offers him an excuse to collect himself before he manages to make an absolute fool of himself. “So. Art, huh?” He can’t help but smile at the thought.

* * *

“This is the building your living space and studio will be in,” Shiro says, unlocking the front door. It’s an unimposing building: a simple two-story art deco. He’s met with warmth as soon as he crosses the threshold, and immediately heads down the hall to disarm the building. When he returns, Keith has closed the front door behind him, but lingers by it, looking around with his fists shoved in the pockets of his parka. “I’ll show you around.”

He gestures to the room before him. It’s a large, open-concept room with a few circular tables. Colorful shelves line one of the walls, filled with bins and containers of art supplies. Another wall is covered in paper banners, posters—some of which are hand painted with quotes by James Baldwin, others more professional with an accurate suffrage timeline and the importance of voting. There's a large state map that has small icons to denote what each county is known for. The rest of the wall space is dedicated to artwork very obviously created by children. "This is our classroom space. Normally any kind of kids' programming is facilitated in this space. The education coordinator's office is through that door, and mine is further down the hall. Currently, the educator's position is unfilled, so I will be your point person for anything you need assistance with while you're here."

"How many people are working here, then?"

"Right now just two others." Shiro sees the frown forming on Keith's gorgeous face, and he quickly tries to wave the concern away. "If you're about to say anything about my work load, it's fine. Winter is the ideal time of year to be short-staffed, if it has to happen."

Keith huffs. "You shouldn't be going out of your way to meet with me first thing in the morning if you're running this tight of a ship."

"Please. As if it was any inconvenience at all." He smiles gently. "C'mon, let me show you upstairs."

Along the same hall that leads to Shiro's office, there is a set of stars tucked away at the end. "You'll get a set of keys and an alarm code once we get all the paperwork sorted," he explains as he leads the way up. The stairs lead up to the end of another hall. In front of them is a locked door. To the left, the hall opens up into an even more spacious area than the classroom space downstairs.

It seems as good a place as any to start for a tour. "This is your studio space. You can move any furniture in and out as you need. We've found with previous artists, everyone has their unique ways for utilizing the space. There are extra easels and other supplies that have been left with the museum, so if there’s anything in particular you need, please let me know and I’ll see how we can accommodate you.”

Keith explores the space, taking in the size and the views that can be seen from the windows. “I’ll let you know. Once I get everything unpacked, I’ll have an idea of what my needs are.”

“Of course. We also have gallery space if you’d like to display your work, and we can also have conversations about consignment if you’re interested in selling anything.” It’s all stuff that is outlined in the contract he’ll have Keith sign soon, but he’s found that putting it out there verbally helps. His own personal biases aside, he knows it’s always safer to assume that someone  _ isn’t _ going to take the time and read information they’re supposed to.

When the two finish in that room, Shiro heads back to the locked door at the end of the hall. “Your apartment is in here. Generally speaking, there isn’t a need for staff to come up here short of an emergency, but we will always get your permission prior to entry.”

The door opens to a small hallway. A full kitchen and living room are easily visible on one side, and at the end of the hall are two other doors. “Kitchen is in there, along with a combined living and dining room space. Bedroom and bathroom are down there.” Shiro feels awkward, standing aside while Keith looks around. Is he being too formal? It’s his  _ job _ , and it’s easy to slip back into a more professional persona. But does that make things weird or more comfortable? 

He needs his mind to stop racing.

“This is larger than I was expecting,” Keith comments. “The photos on the listing didn’t do it justice.” 

“To your liking, then?” That’s a relief. He can’t count on one hand how many times someone has complained. Which reminds him– “I do need to go over some ground rules with you. This is all information that was available to you when you first applied, but you’re here now, so–”

So he lays it all out for him. No candles, no smoking, nothing at all that emits smoke or a fire hazard, no weed on site, no guests on site for longer than 48 hours. Typical things that were necessary for a site such as this. 

When the tour ends, they go back down to Shiro’s office. Paperwork is signed, keys and security codes are handed over, and Keith makes his way to the auto shop for his car with the promise of being back to unpack later.

* * *

Admittedly, it’s nice having Keith around. It feels like they’re orbiting around each other in an ‘are we friends? are we professionals?’ sort of way, but it’s… nice. It’s been quiet in the few months since his educator left, and with the rest of his staff stationed in other buildings, having someone living upstairs who is more than tolerable is refreshing.

When his schedule permits, they have lunch together. Sometimes, when Keith returns from his morning coffee run, he brings a latte back for Shiro. It’s just typical nice and friendly things. Just friends. Professional friends. Totally nothing more than that. 

When they talk, it’s perfectly normal, friendly things. Like catching up on the lighter side of all the parts of their lives the other missed out on. Shiro doesn’t know if Keith has baggage, but his own heavy stuff is too heavy to share. Even if his back breaks one day, he can’t imagine sharing the burden. The things he carries are his, and his alone. 

Fortunately there are other histories he can talk about with well-practiced ease. It’s an easy mindset for Shiro to slip into when Keith comes by for a personal tour of the site. He can forget that he’s guiding his technically former best friend, ex-boyfriend, and now current resident around his site and instead focus on the rich history that he’s charged with preserving and sharing with the community.

He starts by giving Keith a rundown of the administrative building he’s residing in, along with some of the town’s history. It’s a very common story: prospectors flocked to the area in hopes of striking it rich. Mears happens to be one of the ones that were lucky enough to make it beyond the early stages of growth. 

“At first, they’d set up tents. So in the earliest days of the mining era, Mears was a ‘tent city.’ But, as with a lot of mining towns, once word got out that there was gold—as well as silver, and other valuable ores—in the mountains here, a proper town appeared seemingly overnight. They were wood constructions, many of them with false fronts, and newspapers as insulation.” It’s one of his favorite facts to throw out there, simply because of how much it encapsulates human tenacity and stubbornness.

Keith frowns at that, undoubtedly thinking about the frigid winter weather he’s experienced since his arrival. “Why newspaper? Surely that wasn’t adequate enough.”

“It’s what they had access to. They could still make fires for warmth, but of course that meant there was an extremely high risk for fire. It was basically a rite of passage for towns like these, and Mears was no exception.” Shiro waves his hand as he speaks. “Naturally the fire risk, outside of wildfires, drastically decreased when residents started building permanent constructions.”

Shiro pauses, leading Keith from his office and down the hall to the backdoor that serves as a shortcut to the rest of the property. “This one is one. I mean, it was initially a wood construction, but after the railroad got here and other building supplies could be more easily transported, it was renovated to what it is today—on the exterior, anyway. There have been a lot of internal changes in the almost-130 years since then.”

“What was it before it was part of the museum?”

Shiro withers at the question. It’s not a bad question. It’s a very good one, one that a lot of people are interested in. One that in any other circumstance, Shiro wouldn’t shy away from. But it’s Keith, and as much as he tries to pretend that his regard for him is purely professional, he knows it’s not. The feelings are still there, growing every day that he gets to learn more about the man he’s become. 

That’s why he struggles with responding. Because somehow, his own personal feelings make it feel like answering this question is inappropriate. “It was originally owned by a woman known as Acxa, who was an astute businesswoman and madam. The first floor was a saloon, but the second floor was, uh. A disorderly house.” 

There’s a wheezing sound behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see Keith pointedly not looking at him, but the tips of his ears and cheeks are a bright red. “A brothel, you mean.”

Shiro hums, directing Keith’s attention to a framed page of the 1895  _ Traveler’s Guide to Colorado _ . “Well known enough that it made it into a directory. Anyway, she also helped fund the First Bank of Mears and the first school.  _ Pret-ty  _ cool person.” Shiro pushes the back door open, leading Keith to the museum grounds, which apart from the sidewalk, are completely snow covered. “It changed hands a few times in the ‘20s and ‘30s, before finally becoming a doctor’s office. The renovations drastically changed the layout of the interior of the house, save for the load-bearing walls, but that’s when it got indoor plumbing and electricity. The Mears History Museum, which started acquiring neighboring properties in the ‘60s, bought it in 1986 and it’s been part of the museum ever since.” 

Keith responds with a noncommittal sound that Shiro takes as the go-ahead to proceed. He takes him into a building that used to be a general store, another that was a house-then-rooming-house, and finally another that was once was a barn and carriage for the aforementioned house that is now interpretive space. All the while, Shiro regales Keith with his favorite stories and anecdotes. 

When he finishes up the tour, it’s nearing noon, and the two decide to walk down the street to a nearby burger joint. Shiro’s fairly certain he’s veered into the nervous rambling territory of talking, but Keith is still clearly listening so maybe it’s not too bad? There’s an awareness somewhere within him that he should just  _ shut up _ and yet–

“So– all of this to say, it wasn’t easy living here, but other places dealt with worse and eventually became ghost towns. Winter recreation is undoubtedly the industry that saved us after mining went away. You know, boom-bust cycles, and economies completely surrounding resource extraction, and all that.” 

Keith visibly perks up at the mention of ghost towns. “Are there any near here? Ghost towns, I mean.” 

“There’s a ton,” Shiro muses. “Animas Forks is probably one of the closest.”

_ “We should go.” _ Keith’s eyes are wild and brilliant at the thought of the adventure.

It makes Shiro feel strange and weird to think about. “The best time– really, the  _ only _ time to go is in summer.” He’s careful not to say  _ we _ , because Keith will be gone by the end of March, and there’s no point in even entertaining the thought of going together, as much as he’d like to. “It’s another two thousand feet higher in elevation, and this time of year the weather is awful and unpredictable, so the roads are closed for the season. There’s a documented storm from when folks were still leaving there in the 1880s that dropped twenty-five feet of snow, and the residents had to build tunnels to get around.”

Keith whistles something low. “So no roughing it and hiking over anyway, huh.”

Shiro chuckles sardonically as he opens the door to the restaurant, a bell chiming as a result. “Not unless you want to follow in Alferd Packer’s footsteps.” 

* * *

There are conditions for residencies that go beyond following specific rules for living in state-managed historic buildings. It’s a sweet gig if you can afford it—though the big  _ if _ is the grievance that Shiro has with the program. Participants are guaranteed housing for the three month stint, and a monthly stipend totaling three thousand dollars. In exchange, they are required to volunteer for at least 60 hours, leave a piece of artwork for the museum in perpetuity, and any earnings from classes hosted at the museum or related income is split 60-40. 

It’s a better deal than what other museums can offer, which varies from no housing to no stipends, but Shiro is very cognizant of the fact that this program is incredibly inaccessible, except for artists who… either had a trust fund or otherwise had the means to live off of a stipend without having to worry about rent or mortgages somewhere else. 

He doesn’t know what Keith’s circumstances are that allow him to be here—it’s not his business and feels far too rude to ask—but he’s glad he’s here all the same. And judging by the responses to the most recent event Shiro’s posted on Facebook, the core group of community members who engage with museum events are glad, too.

He’s been here long enough not to rely on the ‘going’ or ‘interested’ responses, but the overall engagement seems promising. It helps that he promotes welcoming receptions with press releases that get sent to the local and regional newspapers and radio stations. 

Pulling out his phone, he opens up his conversation with Keith. Most of their conversations have been in person, so the extent of their texts are  _ i’m here _ and  _ see you soon _ . But Keith is out for the day. They crossed paths when Shiro got to the office this morning, prepared for hours of bullshit meetings. Keith, meanwhile, was bundled up in his parka with a messenger bag over his shoulder with the intent of going up the lift to the ski area to get a proper view of the mountains that encircled the town. 

Keith’s impromptu adventure doesn’t surprise him; after all, he’s tasked with creating art inspired by the area, history, or anything related to that. 

But Shiro doesn’t know how long Keith will be gone, nor does he know whether Keith will have reception up there. His own signal is always dodgy up there, but he’s not certain if that’s an ‘everyone’ thing, or just with his provider. All that Shiro knows with any certainty is that he wants to talk to Keith in any fashion he can right now, and his next meeting is in ten minutes. 

But casual conversation via text, when he hasn’t yet again reached that level of — comfort? camaraderie? — with Keith, doesn’t come easy. So the best thing he can bring himself to type out is the least interesting thing he can think of, which also happens to be something that doesn’t actually require Keith’s attention, nor is it particularly interesting.

_ Looks like your welcoming reception may be drawing a decent crowd (by small town standards). :-) _

He’s pathetic, perhaps a little desperate, in regard to how long he stares at his phone, but eventually he recognizes he’s not getting a response and locks it. He has pressing matters to focus on. Like his meeting about budgets, and financial reconciliation and reallocation. Riveting stuff. Every change in their system should be minor, but instead it’s more of a headache for everyone involved. Most of the meeting ends up being bitching about that, but sometimes bitching is what gets him and his colleagues through the day.

It’s some hours later when he receives a response from Keith, which is merely a thumbs up emoji.  _ Merely _ , but Shiro feels as giddy as he did as a teenager when he received instant messages from Keith. He’s not at all bothered with an emoji response, especially when it’s about something they’ve discussed before. 

Shiro has a feeling that Keith isn’t particularly thrilled about being the center of attention, but he’s playing ball, and that’s all Shiro can ask for, in a professional capacity. He understands receptions like these are boring at best, and overwhelming at worst, and they’re not for everyone. Shiro’s not fond of the schmoozing and hosting, but he’s  _ good _ at it, so if it comes down to it, he’s confident in his ability to step in and save Keith if he finds himself floundering. But just as he’s confident in himself, he’s confident in Keith’s ability to focus on talking about the things he’s passionate about. 

It’s only two hours, anyway. 

And when that scheduled time rolls around, Shiro is ready. He has everything set up in the formal parlor of the house museum on site. It’s an 1886 Queen Anne style Victorian mansion that stands out in comparison to the other buildings in the small mountain town: in addition to its three floors and creepy unfinished basement, it has a crows nest that makes it one of the tallest and one of the more ornate buildings in Mears. 

The interior of the house, in Shiro’s opinion as a museum professional who has intimate knowledge of the house’s history and preservation concerns, needs improvement, but unless one were to take particular notice to the strategically placed trash cans on the third floor of the house, or the water damage on the wallpaper on the highest edges of the wall, the roof that’s decades overdue in being repaired and the impact that’s caused may go unnoticed. 

What he tends to hear about most is how part of the house isn’t furnished, as if he’d be completely unaware of that fact. It’s been that way since a good decade or so before he even began working for this museum, and it’s something that the locals—particularly the ones who never visit the museum—haven’t let him forget about. They don’t understand that some things are beyond Shiro’s control, and he can only be polite about that fact so many times. 

The silver-lining to having a noticeable lack of artifacts in some rooms is that the parlors are prime real estate for museum events, small conferences, and even weddings. You know, things that bring the museum revenue, unlike the boomers who haven’t been to the museum since they were in fourth grade but bitch about it anyway. 

It also ensures that it takes no time at all to get the parlors ready; the pocket doors are slid open, cocktail tables adorned with burgundy linens, and a banquet table filled with baked goods, a coffee urn, and all of the related fixings. 

The walls are lined with artwork created by previous artists, but the easels that are set up throughout the space are filled with Keith’s art. Some of them are paintings—there’s a portrait of a primly posed cat wearing a Victorian day gown—but the majority of the works that Keith chose to showcase are framed linocut prints. Some are black and white. Some are painted in vibrant colors. There isn’t a coherent theme; some prints are landscapes, others are fantastical beasts. The commonality between them all is the way the negative space is cut away—there's a certain elegance to the curves that perfectly exemplify just how proficient Keith is with a blade.

Somehow, it makes complete sense that he is, but Shiro is impressed all the same.

He’s taken to straightening napkins and paper plates when he hears the door open. Shiro perks up immediately, a smile spreading across his face as he sees Keith enter the parlor. He’s right on time—for anywhere except places like Mears that operate on  _ mountain time. _ Everyone else will get there when they get there, probably in a good ten or fifteen minutes or so, but that means he has time to talk to Keith first.

“You made it,” Shiro says, giving his old friend a thoughtful nod. Keith’s wearing a smart red button up, sleeves meticulously folded halfway up to his elbows, black slacks, and his hair neatly combed and braided. He definitely freshens up well; any other time Shiro has seen him, he’s been dressed more casually. He looks good no matter what, but this is... wow.

Shiro, of course, is ever the gentleman, and rather than commenting on the reason why his cheeks are now undoubtedly quite rosy, gestures to the banquet table. “There’s drip and snacks if you’d like anything.”

Keith seems to realize no one else is there yet, and his shoulders slump in relief as he helps himself to coffee. “And here I was worried that I was late.”

Shiro chuckles. “That was the biggest adjustment for me when I moved here. I think it’s because so much is dependent on the weather… the locals just get there when they get there. There are still things I will start at a firm time, but events like these, you just have to accept that most folks are going to get here late.” 

“Oh,” Keith responds, bringing his cup of coffee up to his lips. “Guess that makes sense, especially if you’ve gotta shovel your car out of the driveway before you get anywhere.” 

Shiro helps himself to some of the coffee as well. As soon as people begin arriving, he’s going to have to switch gears, and the caffeine boost will only help. “Sometimes I still forget to factor that into my mornings, but fortunately if I’m late the only person who knows or cares most of the time is me.” He has a lot he can say about how overwhelming and draining the  _ too many meetings _ trend tends to be, but at least everyone has the courtesy to wait until nine in the morning to schedule meetings. 

But none of that is important right now. Clearing his throat, Shiro redirects the conversation. “This isn’t anything too formal, but are you feeling prepared? Ready? Need anything?”

“It’s just a meet and greet, so I think I can handle it.” The smile he offers Shiro is one brimming with confidence that makes Shiro feel weak in the knees. And it’s an accurate assessment. Shiro can tell that Keith isn’t comfortable being the center of attention. He’s a little awkward, a little stiff, but he survives the small talk and excels when he gets to redirect his focus on his work.

* * *

Whereas Keith is stiff and awkward talking to strange adults in semi formal settings, he excels with kids. Shiro isn’t sure whether he’s surprised or not, because in a way, it makes sense. There’s an ease in his interactions with them, and it makes Shiro feel even more relieved that for his service hours for the community, Keith chose to lead art classes for Meads elementary school students.

It’s not a task that previous artists have been up for, so the change in this regard is exciting, too. And of course, since he still doesn’t have an education coordinator on site, Shiro takes it upon himself to assist. It works well that way; the kids know him, their parents know him. They know what his expectations are for behavior on-site, and his presence helps ensure that everything runs as smoothly as possible. 

There’s time for them to get their wiggles out, to get some of their tactile energy out with the toys and games of their choice. Shiro explains to Keith that it’s yet another one of those small mountain town things—inevitably, if they start the program on time, there’s going to be stragglers. It’s not the fault of kids for being late, and it’s easier to just give them some free time before starting the lesson instead of having to hold the lesson up and repeat things to get each newcomer up to speed.

The kids get their fifteen minutes to play and pick up, and then everyone takes their seat at the long conference table that Shiro set up for activities like this. There are bins of different supplies the students will need along the center of the table for them to share, but the rest of it is still set aside on a shelf out of reach. 

He’s very familiar with students needing to touch or occupy their hands while learning, but there’s only so much they can have access to right now before it just descends into chaos. But they’ll get there. “Okay, everyone! This is Mr. Keith,” he gestures to the man beside him. “He is our new artist in residence and he’s going to be sharing some of his knowledge with us over the next few weeks. His specialty is relief printing, and he’s going to show us how to make linocut prints today.”

The two share a nod, and Keith launches into his lesson. The way he talks and interacts with the kids is with an ease that Shiro hasn’t seen, and it warms his heart in that completely unhelpful ‘he’d be a great dad’ sort of way. As soon as the feeling makes itself known, Shiro discards it, and focuses entirely on being the backup that is needed right now. He passes out sheets of paper and small 4”x6” cutouts of linoleum. 

All the while, Keith explains the history of linocuts—a particular requirement in keeping the museum’s childcare exemption designation—and demonstrates the process. “So what we’re going to do now is sketch out our designs on the paper. Remember, when we get around to printing, whatever we cut into the linoleum is going to be reversed on the paper.” 

It’s with that that he recommends that they avoid using letters, numbers, or anything that needs to display a certain way for their first try. He’s patient with them, giving them time to try again or make corrections if they want to. It’s nice, because the next stage is particularly unforgiving. 

Keith demonstrates how to use the gouges, emphasizes how careful they all need to be since the tools are sharp, and then lets them have a go at the next stage. 

For the first bit, it seems to go well as the kids get acquainted with how to carve the linoleum. That’s until one of the students—a nine year old, who Shiro knows tends to have a perfectionist streak—sounds particularly upset and on the verge of tears. 

Shiro moves to respond, but Keith is quicker, crouching down beside her chair. “What’s the matter?”

The girl points to her most recent cut. The carving significantly veered from the sketched line she was following. “I  _ ruined _ it.” 

“Oh, no,” Keith quickly assures her. “It’s not ruined. Mistakes happen, especially when we’re learning new things, and that’s okay.”

“But I messed up. Look,” she says again, pointing again to the linoleum. 

“That doesn’t have to be a mess up. There are no mistakes when you’re making art. Just a chance to try something new. There are no mistakes, only happy accidents. So let’s–,” Keith pauses, getting up to bring a wooden box over from the shelf behind him. Shiro recalls seeing him bring it downstairs, but he doesn’t know what’s within it. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. Keith brings it over, revealing his personal set of carving instruments. “–make something new right there. What should it be?”

The girl worries on her bottom lip. “It was going to be a hill. But maybe it can be a mountain? Or a tree?”

“Both are great choices. Why don’t you try it, using this gouge? It’s a special one. It’ll help.” 

She does, and whether it’s her renewed faith in herself, or Keith’s encouragement, the carving she makes using Keith’s gouge is one she’s happy with. “Wow, it did it! This one’s magic.”

“Not magic, but it was my dad’s. And he knew all about finding ways to fix our accidents.” He says it so softly that Shiro barely hears it, and his heart clenches.

It’s not long after that the activity ends with the promise that next time, they can make their own prints. If there’s time, maybe they can make their own paper. But for now, it’s time to wrap things up.

Then the kids leave, and though they do a great job of cleaning up their spaces, there’s still some picking up to do. But as Shiro gathers the various instruments to return to the box, he decides finishing clean up can wait. There’s an extra sheet of linoleum, so he settles down at the table. He’s not particularly creative, nor does he have a clear vision for what he wants to do.

Shiro just wants to try it. Maybe, like Keith directed earlier, he should’ve sketched his design out with a pencil. But it’s too little, too late. His unsteady hand causes his carving to go terribly awry, and he’s muttering swears to himself.

It lures Keith over to him from the other side of the classroom. “What’s up?”

“I fucked up.”

Keith peers over his shoulder with a low whistle. “Yeah, you sure did.”

Keith readily agreeing with him comes as a startle. “What happened to ‘happy accidents’?” Where was that wild Bob Ross energy he saw earlier?

The response is a hearty, resounding laugh that he hasn’t heard from Keith in so long. With a ruffle of Shiro’s hair, Keith says, “You’re an adult, Shiro. There’s no such thing as mistakes, only errors.”

* * *

“He’s perfect,” Shiro says dreamily, stirring his milkshake with his straw. He’s still waiting on his burger to be finished, but the wait is okay and absolutely worth it. He’s seated at a booth of his favorite diner, sitting across from one of his favorite people. 

Matt gives him a toothy grin. The two friends haven’t seen each other since the welcome reception, and while texting is always an option, sometimes the best way to catch up is over lunch with a plate of greasy food. “Go on, tell me more. I can tell you’re dying to. You’re practically vibrating in your seat.”

Shiro doesn’t  _ pout _ , he totally doesn’t. But he does straighten his posture a little. “I always kind of knew he was. I mean back in high school he was just so  _ good _ even if no one else saw it, but–” He pauses to find the right words, to find a way to express what he wants to say without being completely cheesy. After a moment, he realizes he really has no choice  _ but _ to be saccharine. “But. He’s grown up to be such an incredible man. In just a few short weeks, I’ve gotten to know him all over again and he’s just  _ the best. _ So smart. So kind. Creative. Beautiful–”

“I get it, you’ve got a crush.” Matt reaches across the table, and before Shiro can duck away, tugs on one of his cheeks. The  _ audacity. _ “Have you asked him out yet? Because you really need to.”

Shiro rubs at his cheek, shaking his head. “Look, just because we’re getting to know each other again doesn’t change that fact that professionally speaking, it’s completely inappropriate, and he has an entire life outside of this residency–”

“He’s single.”

Shiro feels his cheeks go aflame. The burning rises up to his ears, making him the perfect picture of a man who’s got it far too badly for his high school sweetheart. The sputtering doesn’t help matters at all. “ _ What _ .”

“Yeah,” Matt continues, waving his hand dismissively, as if he didn’t just drop a major bombshell. “I get that the idea of pursuing something that could make you happy makes your moral compass go all out of whack, but this is a grey area, and you need to  _ trust yourself. _ I know you. You’re not gonna grant Keith special privileges or break any of those museum rules you hold so dearly just because of your personal relationship with him. Right?”

“Right.”

“Then isn’t it worth it?  _ Again _ , I’d like to emphasize that he’s not your employee. He’s single, you’re single. And when I met him the other night—and talked about you, of course—he was totally just as flushed as you are right now.” 

Shiro nods, but doesn’t bother saying more about it. It’s food for thought, and their server is setting down their plates of greasy goodness. 

* * *

“So there’s this thing,” Shiro says hesitantly. His stomach is all aflutter, the way it often is when he’s talking to Keith. The other man is hunched over his work table, concentrating on whatever it is he’s carving into his sheet of linoleum, but he’s listening attentively.

“What sort of thing?”

“It’s like… a charity thing. Benefits the local animal shelter.” Shiro is suddenly not looking at him, and instead takes a particular interest in picking at the label of his bottle of iced tea. “Called the Fur Ball,” he adds, half-mumbled. 

Keith looks up at him, eyes wide and incredulous, like he’s trying to hide just how amusing he finds the name. “The  _ Fur Ball? _ ”

It’s a beautiful, punny title, right up Shiro’s alley, but right now he’s five seconds from puffing his cheeks defensively. “It’s for a good cause.”

“Of course it is.” Keith’s words are soft and good, and Shiro nearly forgets why he’s nervous bringing it up at all. “What about it?”

Right. “It’s one of the biggest charity events of the year, and I was thinking. It might be fun, and we could go together. You know, if you wanted.”

Keith blinks slowly, tilting his head as his brows furrow. Shiro should probably be concerned by that expression, but Keith’s eyelashes are long and dark and make the deep blue-purple of his irises pop in the most incredible way. “Wouldn’t you rather go with Matt?” 

All of Shiro’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because he’s your boyfriend…?”

Shiro nearly shrieks. No offense, Matt. “ _ No _ , no– God, no. He’s my best friend but– No way. Never.” He feels properly scandalized. “What gave you that impression?”

Keith is now the perfect image of world-shattering confusion. “I don’t know? At the reception he just… knew a lot about you and uh. Had very specific questions he was insistent about.” 

Shiro remembers the welcoming reception, being on the other side of the parlor caught in a droll conversation with one of the museum’s members. Too far away to hear what Matt was saying when he cornered Keith in conversation, unable to walk over as much as he wanted to–

He drags his hands down his face. “I’m going to kill him.” Taking a deep breath, he looks back to Keith imploringly. “I’m single. And I want to go with  _ you _ , no one else.”

Keith’s cheeks light something up, and he stares pointedly at his carving. “I’ll get a suit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mears is not a real place but is a reference to Otto Mears, who is most notable for his railroad building throughout the San Juans. (and if you didn't google Alferd Packer, he is also a real person.)
> 
> While the specific history Shiro talks about doesn't exist because Mears isn't a real place, it's a very typical story for boom towns in the American West. 
> 
> Towns like these tended to be rooted in resource extraction, ergo tended to be caught in boom-bust cycles; they make or break, and very rapidly. Animas Forks is a real example of one that breaks. 
> 
> I could honestly go on in depth but I don't know how interesting these topics are to people so! I guess let me know if you're itching to know more about any of the things discussed in this fic.


	2. February

The Fur Ball is held at the Mears Community Center, as it’s one of the few buildings in town that can accommodate events for over fifty people. When Shiro walks in from the blistering cold with Keith at his side, he’s struck by how reminiscent it is of the homecoming dance he attended in high school with Keith. 

It’s a different time of year, a different climate, but it’s still a gym decorated in silver and purple streamers and balloons. Tables covered in vinyl tablecloths and party favors take up a considerable part of the gym, with a podium set up under a basketball hoop, banquet tables of catered food lining the collapsed bleachers, and various sound equipment dispersed throughout the gym with a sound tech sequestered away into a corner. The similarities, as superficial as they may be, are enough to give Shiro a palpable spike in _jitters_.

He steals a glance at Keith, who after a moment of eye contact, slips his hand into Shiro’s as he leads him over to one of the not-yet-occupied tables. There’s a pitcher of ice water on the table, and Shiro pours both of them a glass. With his nerves as they are already, and his tendency to get a dry mouth around Keith, it seems like the best idea.

And then he’s immediately downing half his glass, but at least he feels less parched. “I’m sorry if this ends up being lame.” Events like these are hit or miss– there’s going to be speeches, and a raffle, and dancing in addition to the catered meal, and there're so many ways it can be a bust. It’s for a good cause, one that Shiro won’t regret supporting, but…

Keith crowds him, leaning against him. Shiro can smell his shampoo, his cologne, and finds himself unable to focus on anything but all that is _Keith._ “Going anywhere with you could never be lame, Shiro.”

It’s suddenly sweltering in the community center’s gym, and Shiro finds himself reaching for the pitcher again to refill his glass as he laughs nervously. “I have to say that’s a relief.” 

“I can’t believe that’s such a shock to you.” Keith is teasing him, now leaning an elbow on the table while cupping his cheek. He looks amused and devastatingly handsome. Shiro literally asked for this, but he’s suddenly not sure if he’ll make it through the night. 

“I mean, maybe it’s not,” Shiro says slowly, plucking at the gloves he’s still wearing. “I don’t know. It’s a relief to know, in any case.” It’s just his nerves, and his desire to prove to Keith that he’s _fun_ and not just some boring, almost thirty-five year old man whose life completely revolves around his job. He needs Keith to know that there’s space for him here, if he wants it. 

“You do that when you’re anxious.”

Shiro openly stares at him. “What?”

“Fuss with your gloves.” Keith frowns, gaze darting from them upward to meet Shiro’s eyes. “Are you alright?”

Of course Keith would be observant, and be able to read him so keenly even after all these years apart. There’s no lying to Keith, not even by omission. He deserves better than that. “A little nervous.”

One of Keith’s hands covers Shiro’s, long fingers wrapping around him. “Don’t be. It’s just me, Shiro.” What Keith probably fails to understand, Shiro assumes, is that’s precisely the reason for his nerves being as messy as they are.

“I know, Keith.”

“Is that why you wear your gloves all the time?” He must be making a face, because Keith clarifies, in a much softer tone. “I just realized I hadn’t seen you without them. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Shiro realizes he probably _should_ talk about it. Keith of all people should know, but talking about it isn’t easy. _Just rip the bandaid off,_ _talk about it in the most detached way possible._ The rest can come later. If this is somehow going to be some kind of deal breaker, it’s better to find out now and not when he’s… more emotionally invested.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just, you know. Life threatening situation a few years back and the surgeon had to–” He definitely, totally doesn’t make a sound mimicking a bone saw. He’s not _that_ disconnected–ha. “So now I have a prosthesis. It’s actually pretty cool, and I’ve got normal mobility and everything. It’s just, you know.” 

It’s a small town. And the one thing people in small towns are good at is staring. But he doesn’t want Keith to think it’s a big deal. It’s not. It’s fine, he’s used to it, so he shrugs in an attempt to minimize what’s probably a devastating revelation. 

He can’t even bring himself to glance over to Keith. He doesn’t want to know if he looks concerned or disappointed or anything like that. He can’t bear the thought of Keith looking at him that way. And maybe, over the years, he’s mentally placed Keith on a pedestal, but–

“Shiro.” There’s a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. He can feel Keith leaning close, crowding him in the pleasant way that only Keith can. “Hey, look at me.”

When he complies, Keith is peering up at him imploringly. “Nothing, and I mean it when I say absolutely _nothing_ , can make me think less of you. You don’t have to talk about anything, or share anything with me that you’re not comfortable sharing. But. I want to thank you for sharing that with me. I am glad you trust me enough to tell me about it, and most importantly I’m glad you’re here beside me right now.”

Shiro picks at his gloves, his cheeks burning. “Thank you, Keith.” He lets the relief wash over him. “Sorry for bringing things down.”

Keith snorts. “Nothing a nice dinner can’t fix. Looks like they’re ready to serve, too.” He nudges him, directing Shiro’s gaze to the catering tables. 

Dinner is nice: salmon, roasted vegetables, and heinously delicious dinner rolls with a honey butter spread. There’s not a lot of talking between the two of them, as the event organizers have decided that the best time to speak is when they have a captive audience. Which is fine, because after that conversation, Shiro is more than happy to take the time to enjoy the food and let his glass of wine settle his nerves. 

The speeches end, there’s applause, and everyone finishes their dinner. The music volume picks up; it’s not terribly loud, but as couples venture onto the makeshift dance floor, it’s more than clear what the intent is for the rest of the evening. 

The music varies; some of it is slow, and other tracks more upbeat. But it’s clear that the sound tech is more than aware of who the anticipated demographic is: Shiro’s yet to hear a single song that is younger than ten years old. 

He doesn’t mind that at all, which is probably telling in and of itself, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, all of his focus is on the man who is leaning in again, nudging at him.

“You owe me a dance.”

Shiro raises a brow at him, unable to contain his smile. “Do I, now?”

Keith hums, digging his chin into Shiro’s shoulder impishly. “Yup. About twenty years overdue, I reckon.”

Shiro scoffs. “What, because you wanted to smoke with our friends by the dumpster behind the gym instead of dancing inside it?”

“ _Me?_ ” Keith’s tone is indignant, which is a sharp contrast to the gentle way his fingers brush along the side of Shiro’s jaw, coaxing to shift in his seat to face him more directly. “You’re lucky I’m gracious and not collecting interest on what you owe me, Takashi.” 

There was a point in time when Shiro would’ve done anything for Keith, particularly when he used that tone with him. It sends a thrilling rush throughout his body to discover that this is something that hasn’t changed. “Then we’ll dance however many times it takes to make it up to you.”

Shiro stands, offering his hand out for Keith to take, and leads him to the dance floor. He finds a spot that is out of the way, and far enough away from others that it doesn’t feel cramped. His heart’s pounding in his throat, but it doesn’t stop him from setting his hands on Keith’s hips, pulling him close.

“Just so you know,” Shiro says, tilting his head slightly as he looks down at Keith. “I never learned how to dance.”

Keith laughs, something soft and private just for them. Shiro’s heart soars. “Mm, lucky again. I’m perfectly content to sway.” 

And sway they do, nice and slowly with Keith’s head resting against his shoulder. To Bon Jovi’s ode to Tommy and Gina, to Sophie B. Hawkins’s declarations of everything she’d do for the person she loved. Holding Keith in his arms is the best feeling in the world, and it’s a sensation he wants to commit to memory and never, ever forget. 

He doesn’t know how long they dance—at some point he loses track of the number of songs they dance to—but it almost makes up for two decades of not dancing with Keith. Almost, but not quite. Shiro is certain that he’ll need to dance with him again to fully make up for the lost time. And again, and again, and again.

It’s late when they leave, but with Keith’s hand in his as they walk to his vehicle, he doesn’t feel fatigued at all. The drive back to the museum is short, but pleasant.

“I had a great time, Shiro. Thank you.”

That means _everything._ “I did too. I guess I’ll see you in—” It’s past midnight, he realizes. “–about a day and a half?” Something like that. Time is hard.

“Sure,” Keith responds, clearly not in the mindset to even consider calculating time. His hand rests on the passenger door, hesitating. It’s just long enough for Shiro to notice, but before he can question it, Keith is leaning over the middle console, pressing a soft kiss against Shiro’s lips. “Text me when you get home.”

Shiro promises he will, and for the entire drive home, the sensation of Keith’s kiss lingers.

* * *

The end of February rolls around before he knows it, but that doesn’t mean anything for Shiro. His birthday is never a big deal—it was, once, back when he was young enough to care about the inequity of having a leap year birthday. There was a time where he felt justified in just having his birthday last _two_ days to make up for the injustice. 

But now, he’s got a career, and he’s old enough to wake up with random pains that seemingly come from merely existing in the wrong manner. It just doesn’t have the appeal that it used to. Which is fine. 

It’s not even actually his fake birthday yet, but the awareness of how close it is rises to the surface in full force when there’s a knock on the door frame of his office. He looks up to see Keith leaning against the frame, holding a small plate with a cupcake. 

“Are you busy?”

“Never for you,” Shiro assures him, shifting his paperwork aside to clear space on his desk on the off-chance that makes his office more inviting. Keith enters, setting the plate down on the cleared space before taking a seat in the chair in front of Shiro’s desk. Up close, Shiro can clearly see it’s a chocolate cupcake with green icing and a row of triangle-shaped darker green fondant. He cracks a smile as he looks over at Keith. “You brought me a stegosaurus cupcake?”

Keith hums in confirmation. “If I recall correctly, someone is turning eight and three-quarters soon.” 

“Not for another week,” Shiro murmurs. Then, more clearly and sincerely, he adds, “Thank you, Keith.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Admittedly, I came here with ulterior motives.”

That raises a brow, but it doesn’t stop Shiro from eating a piece of fondant. “Yeah?”

Keith nods, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear in the way he does when he’s trying to hide a blush. It’s been a common gesture lately. Shiro’s noticed. “I was wondering whether you already have plans for your birthday weekend. Because if you don’t, I was thinking… Um. There’s a place we could go celebrate, just the two of us.”

Shiro has never wanted anything more. 

* * *

The plan Keith has concocted is a brilliant one. Apparently over the past several weeks, Keith has taken the time to research the various places he could go, and the things he could do while in the state. That part doesn’t surprise Shiro, but what does surprise him is the itinerary Keith developed. If he had to guess, Shiro would’ve suspected that Keith would opt for activities centered around winter sports. There are so many places to go for skiing, snowboarding, or even snowshoeing. 

But what he presents to Shiro instead is a trip to the vineyards a few hours’ drive away in the off-season. A weekend there for wine tasting and a stay at a bed and breakfast. He’s surprised, but not at all disappointed. Shiro’s convinced that Keith is supernaturally attuned to him or something, because he can’t think of a better way to relax and celebrate his birthday. Which isn’t to say that he isn’t fond of the more active options, but he can feel the way his stress and tension is building up in his right shoulder in particular, and he’s well-aware of the discomfort his prosthetic is causing, as well as the fact that he can’t remember the last time he properly slowed down and relaxed.

So as he packs an overnight bag in preparation to leave early Saturday morning, he’s pointedly ignoring the relentless teasing from Matt ever since he let it slip that he’d be out of town for the weekend of his birthday. In fact, he’s ignoring it so much that he can scarcely remember what Matt said. Something something U-Haul, probably. But it doesn’t matter. He’s going to get out of town for a few days, disengage from his work responsibilities, and enjoy himself. 

The anticipation means he doesn’t get enough sleep, but between his excitement for getting away to spend time with Keith and a strong cup of coffee, he’s good to go. Shiro picks Keith up from the museum at sunrise, and the commute down the mountain begins. Keith is alert and awake, but there’s a comfortable silence between them.

The sun crests over the mountains, and the early morning light dances behind the spruce and aspen as they make their descent. Between the gorgeous, snow-covered view, pleasant music, and his beautiful companion visible in the periphery, Shiro can’t ask for a better drive. 

* * *

A few hours later, they arrive at the bed and breakfast. It’s a lovely house—a two story Craftsman, with a beautiful columned porch and overhanging eaves—and though spring is still a ways off, it’s obvious that the grounds are well manicured and the gardens on the property are well managed. There are raised flower beds, shrubs, and fruit trees in the front yard. A cobblestone pathway leads from the gravel parking lot to the porch. Along the edge of the property near the street-side sidewalks hangs an obviously handcrafted sign, reading: 

_Altea Bed & Breakfast  
_ _Palisade, Colorado_

“Oh, this place is cute.” The car’s in park, and Shiro cranes his neck to get a proper view from the window. He’s never been to a bed and breakfast before. Hostels and family-run hotels, yes, but this is something completely different. There’s a romantic, coupley aspect to it that has his heart racing in the best way.

They’re not really officially dating. That conversation hasn’t happened. But there’s hand holding, and kisses, and so much of their free time is together. It feels like the real thing, especially when Keith unbuckles his seat belt to lean over, resting his chin on Shiro’s shoulder.

“Mhm, and I hope you’re ready to be pampered, Shiro. You deserve it.”

It’s a foreign concept, one that he chuckles over. Keith kept the details of their trip a surprise. Normally, the concept would drive him crazy, but he trusts Keith to organize activities that he won’t hate. They know each other too well for that. “Pampering? Do you have a spa day scheduled for us?”

“More like wine tasting. But maybe a massage is in the cards for you.” 

“What could be better than your hands on me?” The words spill out before he can stop himself. It’s too late to take the words back, and he means them, so he leans into it, offering Keith a grin. The best part is that Keith’s face is all lit up in the most precious way. 

“Right, um. Let’s get checked in,” Keith says after coughing once or twice. And then he’s opening the side passenger door and going for their bags. Shiro helps, and together they walk up to the front step.

They walk through the foyer, which opens up to a large room. Straight ahead there’s a reception desk, and throughout the room are exquisite lounges, coffee tables, and other pieces of furniture. The space is decorated like it’s straight out of a catalogue from the early 1910s. Behind the desk is a beautiful woman with long and lush white hair. 

When she looks up at them, it’s with a warm smile. “Welcome! You must be Keith and Takashi.” 

“That’s us,” Keith confirms, digging out the reservation print-off from his pocket. He steps closer, leaning onto the counter part of the desk. It goes smoothly, and the woman, Allura, is happy to go through her spiel. She goes over the policies, the various times for checkout, meals, and everything else she finds pertinent. 

Shiro hears her say something about it being off season, so they’ll be the only guests during their stay. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but Allura clasps her hands together as she informs them, and seems thrilled to assist them with anything they need.

It’s sweet, he’d decide later. But his focus is on the dog he spots perched primly near the foot of the stairs: an afghan hound with a meticulously groomed golden coat that has a sheen that Shiro envies. The two make eye contact, and when there’s a faint tail wag, Shiro ventures closer and kneels down to pet the dog.

The dog's fur is as soft as it appears, and like the very good boy he is, he rewards Shiro's affection with a lick. The conversation happening behind him doesn't matter, only getting to pet the dog. 

"What are you doing?" A male voice, derisive and haughty, descends from the second landing. Shiro looks to see yet another beautiful person with long white hair staring down at him. Neither Allura nor this man look old, so it really has him wondering whether it's natural or an aesthetic choice. Or perhaps this is some pseudo- _Bunnicula_ situation, but instead of a vampire bunny draining vegetables until they're white husks, it's specifically just hair color. He'll have to ask Keith's opinion later. 

Besides, there are more perplexing things happening in the present. "Pardon?"

The man gestures to the dog. "Wolfgang's hair is askew. It’s probably completely tangled. Do you know how long it takes to properly groom him?"

Shiro blinks. “No?”

The man scoffs, and is probably about to go off on some kind of weird and pretentious tirade, but Allura cuts him off. “Lotor, be a dear and show our guests to their room. They’re in the Peach room.” Probably because of Palisade peaches, but it takes everything to keep from snorting at the unspoken joke that’s right there.

“Of course, darling,” Lotor responds. Gesturing for Shiro and Keith to follow him, he heads back upstairs and leads them down the hall, stopping in front of a door that has a wooden peach-shaped plaque on the door. “This is your room.” 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, and wanting to prevent things from being awkward during their stay, he quickly adds, “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t realize it tangled so easily.”

Lotor sniffs. “It does, and if Wolfgang had his way, he’d prance around looking like a rat’s nest, but we can’t have that. Do be more careful next time.”

“Of course.” 

Lotor shuffles off somewhere into the depths up the house, leaving Shiro, Keith, and their bags standing in front of the door. Once he’s out of sight, Keith nudges Shiro teasingly as he unlocks the door. “Wow, Shiro. Can’t believe you’re eight and three-quarters and you still don’t know how to pet a dog properly.”

“What can I say? My family is all cat people.” The joke is abysmal, as is his overall sense of humor, but Keith’s quiet snickering is worth it. 

Upon entering the room and turning the light on, it’s immediately obvious why this room is named the way it is. The style of furniture is fashionable enough, but everything, including the wallpaper, are shades of green and peach with occasional accents of white, red, and yellow. There are also a few items in the room that resemble the shape of the fruit, including the lamp sconces on either side of the two queen-sized beds.

“I guess they really go hard for the customers who want the full experience or something,” Shiro says, venturing further into the room and setting his bag down on one of the beds. He supposes this takes care of the sleeping arrangements question.

Keith sits down at the foot of the other. “The other option was a king, but I didn’t know if, um. What your preferences would be, so...”

“Oh, I would’ve been fine either way. I don’t mind sharing a bed with you.” Shiro doesn’t want to pressure Keith either way, so what he keeps to himself is the very real desire to sleep with Keith curled up around him. 

“Oh,” comes Keith’s only response. Shiro wonders where his thoughts have drifted off to, because he’s suddenly redder than Shiro’s ever seen him. Or, more accurately, since they were teenagers, fumbling through crushes and attraction in the way Shiro feels they’re reenacting now. “The wine tasting is at three, so we can grab lunch first if you want.”

“That works for me,” Shiro confirms. It gives them plenty of time to get a feel for the area, perhaps pick out a few places to check out before the drive back to Mears tomorrow afternoon. 

As they make their way downstairs and to the exit, Allura spots them. Her smile is broad and knowing, as if, even though this is a two-beds situation, she knows it doesn’t have to be. “Where are you two off to?”

Keith offers the name of the winery they’re going to later. “But first, we’re grabbing lunch.”

“Oh, splendid! It’s a wonderful venue, and all of the restaurants around here are great.” Shiro isn’t sure about blanket statements about restaurants; there are a few he intentionally omits if anyone ever asks him for recommendations in his neck of the woods. But Allura quickly pushes the conversation forward. “It’s good you’re doing those things now; if the storm tonight is as bad as they’re saying it’s going to be, it may be less than ideal.”

“Isn’t it supposed to just be a dusting?” Shiro frowns, fishing his phone from his pocket to see if there’s been a considerable change in the forecast. Of course, this time of year it’s not unheard of; there have been plenty of times where the forecast indicates an inch of snow, and it ends up being half a foot or more. 

Allura shrugs. “I guess it’s intensified, because that’s not what’s projected now.” 

His weather app takes its time updating, but it confirms what Allura is telling him. He frowns, tilting his phone over for Keith to see. Although it’s entirely unnecessary, Keith takes this opportunity to rest his head on Shiro’s shoulder and peer over. 

“Maybe we should stay an extra day?” 

“I have a lot of–”

Keith cuts him off before Shiro can detail just how busy Mondays are. “Then work remotely. You know it’s going to be worse in the higher elevations, and even if the roads aren’t closed, do you really want to risk it?”

The answer is a resounding no. Not with precious cargo on board. Shiro doesn’t realize that the admission is one he reveals verbally until he hears Keith clear his throat, face beet red as he straightens. 

His own face is burning as he locks his phone and dares to look up to their spectator. “Would booking another night be possible?”

Allura’s response is enthusiastic. 

With that settled, they head to Shiro’s car. Shiro takes his time driving around, parking only when they spot a bistro that looks interesting. Just as they’ve been doing in Mears, they take the table that’s closest to the front windows, giving them a nice view of the street as they enjoy lunch. 

It’s just sandwiches, but the variety this place offers is unique and a treat. Shiro’s choice is a carved turkey sandwich on brioche with raspberry habanero jam and goat cheese. Keith’s is a roast beef with pepper jack, anaheim chiles, and spicy crema fresca on ciabatta. As the server heads off with their order, it’s very clear they made the right selection in places to have lunch.

As they wait, Keith stretches his legs out under the table, intentionally bumping them against Shiro’s. Shiro, in turn, reaches under the table and grabs Keith’s calf. “We could totally share if you want.”

Keith scoffs. “You’re just after my pickle.” 

Suddenly, it’s Shiro’s turn to go bright red, and it’s an amazing feat that he isn’t wheezing. “That’s what she said.”

“Oh my god, what are you, twelve?” Keith's whole body shakes as he covers his face in his hands, snickering.

“Eight and three-quarters. And I absolutely want your pickle.”

* * *

The winery is nice. Shiro can’t say he knows what to expect, having not been to one before, but there’s a lot to enjoy: getting to hear about the rich cultivation and agricultural history of Palisade, and the vineyard that’s part of this winery in particular; getting to taste different wines and meads; getting to watch Keith’s face scrunch up when he tries a dry red. It turns out that Keith isn’t really a wine person, but made the correct assumption in thinking this is something Shiro would enjoy. 

Then again, Shiro shares the same sentiment that Keith once revealed: anywhere, anything with him is enjoyable. 

One day, he’ll have to visit an establishment like this during the summer. There’s probably a lot that he’s missing out on by it still being winter, but he doesn’t really mind. 

By the time they finish, the sun has set, and there’s the particular sort of heavy chill that comes before a snowstorm. Keith shivers at the shock from it, and Shiro knows exactly what to do.

“Don’t you dare take your coat off, Shirogane,” Keith warns, catching him right as Shiro’s snapping one of the buttons open. 

“You’re cold.”

“But then you will be too!” he huffs. 

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make.” But since Keith isn’t having it, he opts for tucking his arm around Keith’s shoulders, keeping him as snug as he possibly can as they walk to the car. Neither of them are particularly hungry, but agree the best course of action for the evening is to bring takeout back to their room to have with a bottle of a fruit wine they both liked. 

By the time they return to the Altea Bed and Breakfast, it’s flurrying. While Shiro lifts the windshield wipers up to prepare for the heavier snow, Keith fetches their takeout from the backseat. When he stands, closing the door behind him, he yelps a _fuck_ that startles Shiro to the point that he’s concerned that Keith got hurt in the few seconds since he last glanced over at him.

“Are you okay?” Shiro closes the distance between them, taking the food in one hand, setting his other hand on Keith’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Keith rubs at his face. “Snow flew into my eyes.” 

Is Shiro a bad person for laughing? Possibly, but he can’t help the soft chuckle. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

“Keep laughing,” Keith sniffs dramatically. “I’ll show you tomorrow. Snowball fight.”

“A single snowflake in the eye is not the same as a snowball to the face.” 

“No one said anything about face shots,” Keith retorts, elbowing him. “It sounds like you’re just making excuses.”

“Am not.” Shiro makes a show of pouting at him as he opens the door so Keith can enter first. “If you want a snowball fight so badly, you’ll have one.”

* * *

They eat picnic-style on one of the beds, sitting cross-legged with the duvet beneath them. Like absolute heathens, they use the disposable plastic cups from the bathroom to drink their wine. Shiro feels bubbly and comfortably warm, content with the company beside him as the storm picks up outside.

They clean up from dinner, tossing the takeout containers into the small trash bin in the room, and work on finishing off the wine.

“Thank you, Keith.” The wine has Shiro’s cheeks burning, and it makes him feel a little better about the idea of saying anything that would otherwise have him blushing. “This is the best birthday I’ve had in… a long time.” 

Keith’s lips quirk into a smirk before finishing off the wine in his cup. “It’s not over yet, Big Guy. You haven’t even gotten your present yet.” 

Shiro barely has time to respond before Keith is on him. A hungry kiss and roaming hands quickly turn into discarding layer after layer of pesky clothing in a fervent journey of discovery and bliss.

* * *

Morning comes slowly; the continuing snow into the early morning hides the sun, slowly and gently letting light into their room. It’s perfect; Shiro feels no sense of urgency to get out of bed. Instead, he’s content to stay tangled with Keith and watch him sleep. 

When Keith wakes, he nuzzles into Shiro’s neck. He’s insatiable, and has scarcely been awake a few minutes before he’s bowling Shiro onto his back, giving them another reason to stay in bed longer.

After breakfast and bundling up in winter gear, they decide to take the time to enjoy the winter wonderland that’s appeared overnight. Snow is often a nuisance; Shiro isn’t a fan of his routine being interrupted or delayed by last-minute shoveling or window scraping. But having the luxury of being able to enjoy the snow for what it is, is nice.

He can’t remember the last time he took a trek through the snow merely for pure enjoyment. The past couple winters have been filled with snowstorms that were inconsiderate to his work schedule and obligations to leave his home. 

There isn’t much snow where they are: only about five inches for the most part, though it’s deeper in the snow drifts. Still little enough snow to drive around in, if they were back in Mears. But the last leg of the highway they have to take is closed due to the severity of the snow and ice there, and Shiro is forever glad that they just opted to tack on the extra day to the trip.

Part of him wonders if that was part of Keith’s plan. He couldn’t have known that the storm would intensify to this extent, but Shiro knows he’s let slip to Keith just how much PTO he’s accrued. Regardless, he’s glad.

When they’re ready to head out, they head downstairs. Allura spots them as she’s cleaning up from breakfast. Her long hair is tied up, and her smile is radiant. “Are you two off for the day?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Shiro says, chuckling at the fierce look Keith is giving him. “Thought we might walk around for a bit.”

_“You’re not getting out of the snowball fight, Shiro_ ,” Keith whispers while tucked close beside him. 

“Be careful,” she warns them, “Lotor’s shovelled and salted the sidewalks and driveway, but it’s still slick out there. And dreadfully cold.” 

“We will be fine, don’t worry,” Shiro assures her, and after they both take a moment to pet Wolfgang, who is preenly perched on the chaise lounge near the front door, they head out. And it’s no joke—the air is crisp, and there is still a lingering breeze from the storm that pelts snowflakes against his face. 

He’s made it a few steps off the front porch when he realizes he hasn’t heard Keith follow him. Shiro turns, finding Keith still on the porch. With the hood of his parka overhead and a scarf wrapped around half his face, he looks so small and _cold._ Shiro doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, because it’s colder in higher elevation towns like Mears, or if he wants to smother Keith in a bear hug and drag him back inside. “You okay? We don’t have to go out, you know.”

“What? No. I’m not cold. It’s just.” His cheeks are red, and it’s clear by his tone it’s more due to feeling flustered than from the weather. “This–” He gestures to the blanket of snow covering everything around them. “You.” Keith leaves the front steps and walks closer until they’re chest to chest. His gloved hands cup Shiro’s cheeks, pulling him down just enough for their noses to brush. “It’s all so beautiful, and I wanted to take a moment to appreciate it.” 

It’s Shiro’s turn to be flustered, but he doesn’t let himself shy away from it. Because it’s nice to be wanted, to be admired, to be– “The view is perfect from my vantage point, too.” 

Keith hugs him tight, and when they finally pull away from one another, Shiro takes Keith’s hand again, and they properly begin their walk in the snow.

Few things beat a walk in fresh snow. The morning the following day isn’t as beautifully silent as it is during an overnight snow, but it comes close. There are few cars on the road, and it's much quieter once they find a city-designated trail that starts somewhere beyond the bed and breakfast and leads into a small forested area before reaching downtown

At that point, the only sounds are the occasional squirrel or the snow falling from the branches of the spruce trees that surround them. It’s tranquil, and yet another thing that Shiro didn’t realize how badly he needed. But Keith did.

He smiles fondly. “Thank you, Keith. This is not only the best birthday I’ve had in a long time, but also the best vacation.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It feels like a sickly sweet moment, almost unbearable with how fond and _gushy_ he feels. Keith definitely feels the same way, because rather than saying anything more about it, the next thing Shiro’s met with is a handful of snow colliding against the back of his coat.

Shiro scoffs without any heat behind it, letting go of Keith’s hand. “Is that how it’s going to be now?” 

“Yu _p_. That’s exactly how it’s going to be.” Keith is grinning, and it’s so precious. Truly, it’s a shame that Shiro’s going to have to wipe that grin off of his face.

“Unfortunate, because that’s not even how you make a good snowball.” And with those fighting words, it’s on. Shiro scoops up a handful of snow that he packs down just enough to hold shape. Then he’s aiming it right for Keith’s shoulder before ducking behind one of the trees, but he’s not so lucky to completely avoid the one that Keith chucks back at him. 

And so goes most of their walk through the woods. A fifteen-minute walk triples, as gathering up wads of snow takes precedence over getting to wherever they’re aimlessly heading. And as if they’re not covered in enough snow by the time their path opens up to a small half-block sized clearing, Keith trust-falls himself into the snow and tugs Shiro down with him.

Soft laughter fills the space between them, and Shiro blindly reaches out for Keith while staring up at the overcast sky. “This is nice.”

“You’re nice,” Keith retorts, turning onto his side, scooting closer to limpet. 

“No, that’s you. This is all you. I meant what I said earlier, you know.”

Keith is quiet for a moment, and when he finally does respond, it’s with a whispered, “I know.”

It feels loaded, like there’s still so much unsaid between them. Shiro doesn’t know if it’s fear that keeps him from saying what’s on the tip of his tongue, or if it’s just not the right time. Maybe it’s too difficult, or it’s just far too easy to keep pushing it aside, which is what he inevitably does. “Okay, _now_ you’re feeling really cold. We should get walking again. Maybe there’s an interesting store to check out or something.”

Mostly he doesn’t want either of them to get sick. 

“Do we have to? We could just lie here forever.”

Shiro gently squeezes Keith against him. “Sure. The snow makes a nice bed. But then the skies will clear, and between our body heat and the sun, it’ll melt. So then we’ll be lying in slush and mud. That might be fine, because at that point we might have hypothermia and be so out of sorts that the mud might look mighty appetizing.”

“God you’re the _worst._ ” 

Shiro laughs, and once he’s on his feet, he offers a hand to Keith and pulls him up. They dust the snow off their legs and each other’s coats, and continue the walk into town. The series of storefronts reveal a row of locally-owned businesses. There’s a cafe, a nondescript restaurant, thrift stores, and a used books store. 

The latter seems the most interesting at the moment, so they head inside to the cramped, narrow establishment. It’s less a traditional bookstore, and more a book _path_ ; certainly the store is deep, but Shiro quickly finds that to navigate through the store, they have to weave through rows of bookshelves that are all placed in ways to fit as much into the cramped space as possible.

Normally, this would be overwhelming, but it’s different when it’s books. There’s something special about being surrounded by them, with their varying spines and musty scent. Keith wanders off to another part of the store, but Shiro finds himself still lingering over the collection of particularly old books. 

When he sees one that stands out to him, for no reason beyond that the design on the fabric-bound book seems appealing, he gingerly pulls it off the shelf. He hasn’t heard of _A Shropshire Lad_ , nor does he know who A.E. Housman is, but upon opening the book, a poem within it catches his attention:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now  
Is hung with bloom along the bough,  
And stands about the woodland ride  
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,  
Twenty will not come again,  
And take from seventy springs a score,  
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom  
Fifty springs are little room,  
About the woodlands I will go  
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Shiro finds himself staring at the poem, rereading the second stanza over and over. He’s done enough analysis in his life to know that he’s missing some context here. He doesn’t know why Housman wrote it. If there were specific things that inspired or influenced him. Surely there are allegories that he isn’t picking up on.

But he knows about cherry trees. He knows how fleeting their beautiful blossoms are. How it feels like they’re merely here one day and gone the next. He also knows how fleeting the best moments in life are—he could have fifty straight years of complete bliss and happiness, and it would pass much more quickly than a decade of sorrows. 

He also knows that he’s thirty-five. He’ll be lucky to get fifty more. 

Looking up, he sees Keith gracefully rounding about a bookshelf, fingertips gliding along the spines as he read the titles. 

Shiro is thirty-five, suddenly and keenly aware of just how much time he has left if he’s lucky. And the man he’s loved his entire life is set to leave in just a few short weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the unfamiliar, "three score and ten" is seventy


	3. Chapter 3

And before he knows it, their time together ends.

The worst part is that it all falls apart a week before Shiro initially anticipated: upon returning to work following their trip down to Palisade, he finds out that a required work retreat has been scheduled for the end of the month. It’s a date that he can’t argue with; there are no camps running that week, and if they wait much longer, the busy summer season will be upon them and there are a number of training and discussions that are best had in person.

It beyond sucks, but there is only so much to be done.

But he enjoys the time he has left with Keith. They get coffee together, they have their lunches together. Keith stays over for dinner periodically. They even go snowboarding together a couple times. In all that time, though, Shiro struggles to find the right way to tell Keith how he feels. 

The timing never feels quite right. That, and there’s part of him that doesn’t want to acknowledge the ever-approaching end of Keith’s residency. He wants to savor every moment for what it is without a timepiece hanging over him. 

And then there’s the other part. The part that doesn’t know if sharing the burden of his feelings is the right thing to do. He’s here, and Keith’s permanent address is somewhere far southeast that he hasn’t heard of. As much as he wants to lay it all out for him, to put everything in his court, it feels unfair. It’s not that he doubts that Keith likes him; he’s very cognizant of the fact that no one kisses someone they dislike the way that Keith kisses him. He also has eyes, and can see the way Keith looks at him. 

But is it fair to tell Keith, when there’s a very real permanence to Shiro’s place in the world, while Keith’s is so… unbridled? Shiro loves his job, loves the town he lives in, and he loves Keith. But asking Keith to stay here with him feels like he’s asking Keith to make a sacrifice. Asking anyone to move, to give up whatever their plans are and relocate, is monumental. It doesn’t feel fair, and it quickly becomes too daunting to even bring up as time goes on.

So he keeps it locked up and focuses instead on the sweetest moments: Keith’s laughs, his smiles, the barely perceptible crows feet that appear when he looks happiest.

The goodbye event comes and goes. It’s just a few days before Shiro leaves for his out-of-town work obligations, and it’s a nice reception. Keith unveils the pieces he’s completed during his stay, including the linocut print landscape of the town that he’s leaving with the museum. Congratulations and well wishes are had, and the event-goers leave.

Just like that. To them, Keith is just another artist who comes and goes with this program. It’s not devastating for them. It’s not like seeing the emotional equivalent to the beginnings of spring vanishing into another frigid winter before anything has time to come to fruition.

He’s being a little melodramatic. 

Shiro knows he is. Matt tells him he’s being  _ more _ than melodramatic, that he needs to get his head out of his ass and just  _ confess.  _ And of course, Shiro protests, deflects, and before he knows it he’s standing in the middle of the studio above his office, hands in his pockets and trying not to look as forlorn as he feels.

In an incredibly short amount of time, he’s gotten used to seeing Keith’s tools and press and other supplies in the room. Used to seeing the evidence of the many things he was working on all over, but now it’s as barren and tidy as it was when he moved in.

“I have to leave early tomorrow to get there at a reasonable time,” Shiro says. It’s weird and awkward and he doesn’t know how to navigate around the elephant in the room.

“So this is it.” Keith sits on a table that’s pushed against the wall. Shiro can’t get a good read on him. There’s a passiveness to his expression, like perhaps he’s coming to grips with the unfortunate reality crashing around them. 

“Yes? I mean, I have to leave in the morning, so I won’t be here to do the final walkthrough with you for moving out. Hunk will assist you with that, and I don’t imagine you’ll have any problems.” But that’s not what Keith means and he knows it. He just doesn’t like dealing in uncertainties, and how can he be certain about the future? “This is just goodbye for now, Keith, but not forever.”

“You believe that?” Keith offers him a small smile. He doesn’t sound convinced, or perhaps he just sounds sad.

Shiro bundles him up in his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “With every fiber of my being.” 

And then they say their goodbyes, and Shiro heads home to toss his suitcase into the back of his car and get a good night’s sleep—as much as he can—in preparation for the long trip in the morning. It doesn’t surprise him that he doesn’t sleep well, but that’s what caffeine is for.

The drive is long and quiet, and he plays his music—this time an album about how everyone will be healed—loudly, just to keep him alert for the first few hours. Podcasts come later, and then music again until he arrives in the city of the retreat. All of it helps keep his attention alert so that he’s not a danger to himself or others while driving, but none of it keeps his thoughts from drifting to Keith.

The same is true for the following three days of all-day meetings. But when the meetings are over, he has time to text Keith. They talk on the phone when he’s back at his hotel room, even. It’s a good reminder that as sad as he is about the physical distance moving forward, there’s still hope. 

And there’s more of a reliance, and accessibility to technology that keeps this communication more possible now than when they were in high school.

It’s fine. 

When he arrives back home a few days later, and subsequently goes back to work in person, his mind is already made up about what he needs to do. What he should’ve done earlier, but, he thinks, will mean more now. 

And then he goes upstairs to do an unnecessary sweep of the apartment. He’s glad he does, though, because on the bedroom nightstand he spots a piece of paper that shouldn’t be there. Upon approaching, he realizes it’s not just a piece of scrap paper or trash or anything of the sort.

The paper is a piece of stationary that merely reads:

_ Shiro– _

_ to every fiber of our beings _

_ Keith. _

Beneath it is artwork in a style Shiro would recognize anywhere. It’s one of Keith’s lino prints on handmade paper, but definitely not one he’d seen before. The design is intricate; Shiro can perfectly imagine Keith hunched over, carefully carving out the negative space. 

It’s them. Or outlines of two people that Shiro can clearly imagine as them, in a room reminiscent of the one they stayed at in Palisade. The main difference is that the background of the image has a larger window, with much more familiar mountains visible on the other side of it.

It had to have been painstaking and time consuming to create something like this. And it’s precious. He already knows exactly what sort of frame he wants to keep it in, and where in his home he wants to hang it so he can gaze upon it every day.

But he also knows that he can’t delay in doing what he’s gotten in his mind to do. What’s another thousand miles or two on his car? It’s all material, and going after Keith matters so much more than anything else possibly could.

So he puts in his leave, makes all the arrangements on his site that he needs, and leaves as soon as possible.

To fucking  _ Florida. _

The thing is, it’s now April, and April in Colorado is still hardly spring, especially at his elevation. In a typical season, he’s guaranteed snowfall through the end of May. In an atypical one? Snow in June isn’t even out of the question. 

So there’s very little that can prepare Shiro for the nightmare climate he finds himself in. It’s hot, humid, and the air around him is thick and heavy like a sauna. He’s fairly certain he got a sunburn merely from being stuck in traffic on I-10, and as he’s throwing his bag on an ancient motel room bed, he’s questioning whether it’s possible to drown on dry land.

The things he puts himself through…

Part of him wonders if he’s completely off his rocker. There are several things wrong with this whole scenario in addition to the horrible climate. Namely, he didn’t tell Keith his plan. That, and he may have planned everything around the mailing address listed on Keith’s application paperwork.

Which apparently is the address of an establishment called  _ Marmora Antiques & More.  _ It’s typically not the sort of business he’d like going to if he can help it, but for Keith, he’ll do anything. 

But first, rest. 

He doesn’t manage much of it; he’s too keyed up about everything. But it’s enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s running on fumes. It’s also early afternoon, which he assumes to be an optimal time to catch Keith. Based on shoddy Google Maps photos, it looks like there’s an apartment above the store, which is probably where he lives. And with it being hot as balls right now, surely he’d be at home taking advantage of aircon and not just out there, somewhere.

Shiro’s not feeling so certain about the chances of catching Keith here when he arrives, though. There are hardly any cars in the parking lot, and none of them are Keith’s. Keith’s car is running on borrowed time, so it’s possible that he’s here or anywhere else.

Taking a deep breath, Shiro heads inside. The antique store, upon entering, is filled with what in the industry is called COTW—crap on the wall. It’s unsightly, cramped, and makes him feel like he’s a bull in a china shop. It’s everything he hates about antique stores, and he can only hope that being in here is an in-and-out thing before the walls close in on him. He steers clear of the lamps precariously resting along the first stretch inside the store, and heads for the counter.

Behind it sit two burly men who, after a moment, he recognizes as Keith’s uncles. One of them is reclined in an old chair, working on a crossword puzzle. He doesn’t look up. But the other does, offering a polite smile. Thace, he thinks.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

_ Well _ , when he’s asking that way, Shiro figures he might as well be direct. “Keith, actually. Is he around?”

The grumpier-looking of the two looks up at that, scrutinizing him. “What business do you have with Keith?”

Shiro feels like he’s sweating bullets. Maybe they don’t recognize him. It’s probably more difficult to recognize the adult form of gangly teens than adults who still look the same, just older. “Well, you see. I’m a… friend.” That’s a way to put it. “From Colorado. I need to talk to him about something important.”

Keith’s uncles share a glance, and the grumpy one holds his hand out expectantly. There’s an exchange of money, and then eyes are on him again. “What, they don’t have phones over there?”

“Some things are too important to be said over the phone. Is he around or not?”

“Stop giving Keith’s boyfriend a hard time.” It’s a third voice, feminine, and chastising the others. Shiro turns to see Krolia approach from somewhere else in the store. She’s carrying baskets, but she sets them aside on the counter once she’s closer and immediately approaches Shiro. She cups his cheeks, appraising him. “You’ve grown so tall and handsome.”

Shiro flushes. This is suddenly all  _ a lot. _ “Thank you?”

She hums in response. “And to answer your question, Keith isn’t here. He’s got a table at the arts festival this weekend. You should go see him; I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you.”

* * *

It takes twenty minutes to drive to the location of the arts fair. After travelling all this way, Shiro feels anxious, like he’s racing against an invisible clock, and if he can’t just get to where Keith is immediately, the moment will slip through his fingers like hot sand, and by the time he gathers himself again, Keith will somehow be beyond his reach. 

He’s awake, but in his mind’s eye, he can see it play out like it would in a nightmare: just one moment, Keith is within reach, and in the next, try as Shiro might to change the circumstances, Keith is swept up, or the ground Shiro is standing on crumbles, and the void between them is insurmountable. 

He knows it’s irrational, his own fears and insecurities compounding with his urgency, but it doesn’t stop him from running from the parking lot and toward the fair the moment he gets out of his car. From where he is, Shiro can’t get a feel for the size of it, but it feels like a massive labyrinth from his vantage point. 

Small mercies are finding the information booth a few tents away from him. One of the ladies there is more than happy to hand him a map that has all of the tables and tents labelled. It’s a godsend, truly. The tagline for the event describes it as the largest arts and crafts festival of the region, and it’s no joke. 

Judging by the map and the key, there are easily over two hundred tents set up, excluding the food trucks, and some of those tents are dedicated to guilds rather than individual artists. It occurs to him that he never got around to asking Keith why he chose  _ Yorak _ as a pseudonym, but right now that doesn’t matter. 

The only thing that matters is that because Shiro knows it, he’s easily able to find Keith’s location on the map. And of course, it would be his luck that Keith’s location is in the center of the proverbial belly of the beast. From where he is, though, it shouldn’t be that difficult to get to him. He can just take the lane before him all the way down to the center—which is apparently a small lake—and then head to the right. At that point, he should be close enough to get an eye on him. 

It’s a simple, solid plan. 

What it doesn’t account for is just how  _ long _ it takes to weave through crowds of meandering event-goers when all he wants to do is  _ rush rush rush _ . They have no sense of urgency, and Shiro’s brisk pace and determination to get past them all probably makes him an asshole in the heat of the moment, but he just doesn’t have it in him to care.

It’s all worth it when he sees a familiar form with a long, elegant braid perfectly in view, merely turned away from him. Shiro pauses then, ignoring the palpitations of his heart in favor of straightening his clothes and brushing his hair out of his face. It’s hot, and the air is humid and stagnant. There’s only so much he can do about his appearance, and he can only hope that Keith will understand.

Steeling himself, Shiro takes those final strides forward. “Keith–”

Keith turns, but he’s not the first person to speak. Shiro’s taking in Keith’s wide eyes, his generally shocked expression, but it’s not his sweet voice saying his name that he hears in return. Instead, it’s someone louder, more insistent… whose half of the tent he’s apparently standing in front of, but Shiro hadn’t noticed him at all.

“ _ Really _ ? You’re not even going to acknowledge me? I have art right here, too.”

It takes all of his resolve to tear his gaze away from Keith—but he’s not an intentionally rude person, so he does—and turns his attention to the other man in the tent. Sure enough, he has art. Shiro still isn’t well-versed enough to properly identify the man’s work for what it is, beyond that the work he has on display are vibrant paintings, somewhere between abstract and pop. “Oh. Um. Yeah, I see that, but–”

“This isn’t  _ fair _ , Keith. How can we have a fair competition if you’re calling in people to buy up all of your prints?” 

“That’s not–” Shiro begins, but Keith finds his words and speaks over him.

“I’ve already  _ told _ you, Lance. We’re not rivals, and we’re not competing. This–” Keith’s brows furrow as he gnaws on his bottom lip. “This is personal.” He sounds unsure of himself. “Right, Shiro?”

“Right.” He nods to Keith, then turns to Lance. “Your work is great, by the way. But I, uh, kind of drove across the country to talk to him?”

Lance’s face lights up in understanding. Shiro wonders, idly, if Keith has talked about him, and finds his ears burning for reasons beyond the sun. “Ohhhhh, snap. Get it, Mullet.”

Which doesn’t make sense, because Keith definitely doesn’t have a mullet, but whatever. He clears his throat, turning back to Keith. "Can we talk somewhere quieter?" Shiro is now realizing his error in tracking Keith down here beyond the present audience: between the crowds of people and tents, it's  _ loud. _

Keith squeezes his hand, holding onto it even as he lifts that hand to gesture to the spring. "We can take a boat."

And so they do. It's a small rowboat that the rec center, or whomever, rents out. He can feel Keith’s eyes on him as he rows out, and he can hardly hide his smirk. That’s promising. And, well, that makes Shiro feel confident in saying what he needs to say. But if this goes south, Shiro’s a strong swimmer and he can just toss himself overboard. Speaking of–

He lets the oars rest and lets his fingertips graze the water as the boat glides. “It’s cold.” A lot colder than he expected. It’s so hot and humid, surely the water would be warmer. 

“Deep, too,” Keith responds, tilting his head as he watches Shiro. “It’s a cold water spring, about two hundred feet deep.” It’s visible all the way to the bottom, except for the part where it tapers off into a cave. “Know how to SCUBA? We can check out the cave and see some eels. What’d you want to talk about anyway?”

He’s listening to every single word Keith says, but his thoughts drift off, embracing the idea of wet suits and deep cave explorations. But Keith’s question grinds such fanciful thoughts to a screeching halt—a sobering reminder that he came here for a very real, serious purpose. One that he’s still warring with himself over. It’s not that he truly believes Keith will reject him. There’s something  _ there _ , and that’s obvious.

But what if he’s misjudged?

Settling his palms on his own thighs, Shiro inhales, steadying himself. “I just…”  _ You can do this, Shiro. _ He knows everything he needs to say, needs to make sure that Keith fully knows and understands, but just getting it out, putting it into words, is a struggle. “You know. I’m thirty-five, and before you showed up on the highway in a broken-down car in the middle of the San Juans, I never would’ve imagined that I’d have the opportunity to see you again, much less get to know you again, and get to–” 

His mouth is dry and parched. It’s a shame that the cold, cold clear blue water beneath him apparently has eel pee in it. “If we get our full three score and ten, we don’t pass this way again, and I don’t want to lose this opportunity. I won’t get another chance to tell you that I love you. And I do, Keith. I always have, and I always will. And– and I want a future with you. I don’t know what it’ll look like, because right now I’m there and you’re here. But if you feel the same way, we can make this work. I know we can.”

He’s barely got a moment to register the look in Keith’s eyes before there are arms tight around his neck. He hears Keith’s gasped  _ yes _ , and then they’re tipping over, falling into the water. It’s a shock to his system, but he barely feels it at all when he rises to the surface and Keith’s lips immediately meet his own.

_ “Yes, so much yes. I love you too. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens next? Well...
> 
> \- Keith packs up and moves in with Shiro, because why not? They know what they want.   
> \- He rents a studio in downtown Mears for both a work and classroom space.   
> \- Shiro keeps on being a museum director, but with Keith around he actually utilizes his accrued PTO  
> \- They go hiking and visit all the old high elevation ghost towns   
> \- and live happily ever after!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! xoxo


End file.
